The Things I Do For You
by Suicidal Grasshopper
Summary: In which Emily is long suffering, and is ready to kill Steve. Crime fic, xChewy's fault.
1. Chapter 1

This was difficult. And it got longer than I intended. I considered using Rick instead of Steve, but I wanted to use blood and Rick just doesn't seem the type to call Emily in the middle of the night because he's scared.

**DISCLAIMER:** Not mine, actually. Beyblade belongs to...whoever, and the idea is actually xChewy's.

* * *

The Things I Do For You

Whoever's calling me at 2:15 in the morning on a _Saturday_ had better have one spectacular excuse.

"Em?"

I have to resist the urge to snap my laptop in half with my forehead. "Steve, you are really lucky I'm still up, or I would kill you. What the hell do you want?"

"I... I did something really bad, and I..."

"Are you...drunk?"

He hiccups. "I-I'm... No, I'm... Yeah, a little."

"What did you do." I close my laptop and set it on the bag beside my desk at the PPB.

"I-It wasn't my fault, Em! He-- He said she was a-- and I got mad, and I-- And there was--"

I kick my feet up on the desk and blow my hair out of my eyes. "Steve."

"Y-yeah?"

"Calm down, you'll start hyperventilating."

Silence--knowing Steve's minuscule cerebral capabilities like I do, he's probably nodding in agreement, completely forgetting the fact that we're on the phone and I can't actually see him.

"Steve, I can't see you."

"Right, sorry."

Hah. I win.

"Where are you?"

"Chinatown."

"Oh, god."

He hiccups again.

"What street."

"...Pearl Street?"

"Stay put. I'm coming. ...But if you see police, run. I don't know what you did, but I bet it was illegal."

"O-okay."

Hanging up, I set my cell phone calmly on the desk, and with just as much poise and patience, ram my head into the Formica surface.

This is going to be a long night.

* * *

Blaaaaahblahblahblah. This will probably be about four chapters. Or so. Idk. =/

Please review.


	2. Chapter 2

I thought about updating while I was home sick yesterday, but I decided against it in favor of another 4 hour nap (my...third that day, if I remember right). And no, I'm not feeling better. But I'm awake and at school and that's all anyone here cares about, anyway.

Enjoy!

**DISCLAIMER:** Not mine, actually. Beyblade belongs to...whoever, and the idea is actually xChewy's.

* * *

The Things I Do For You

I step onto the subway and lean against a pole near the door. A bum reeking of stale BO and marijuana eyed me from the end of the compartment. I tried to ignore him.

He stood up and stumbled towards me, unsteady with drugs and the train's inertia in the opposite direction. "Hey there," he started huskily, moving into my personal space.

Oh, god, it's even worse up close. I try not to gag.

"Whaddya say we share a joint?"

"I'm allergic. I'd _die_." Actually, I don't know that I am, but it's a good excuse.

He presses further. "Awww, c'mon, ya only live once," he persists.

"I said _no._"

"_C'mon._"

That's it. "I really didn't want to do this, but you just _won't shut up_."

* * *

I have to step over the bum's unconscious body to get off the subway at my stop. Not getting blood on my new sneakers is a challenge, but I manage.

Hey, I may be a genius, but I live in _New York, _for Christ's sake. A girl has to know how to take care of herself after dark.

Despite it being 2:45 in the AM and in the heart of Chinatown, I really don't see a whole lot of druggies. Hmmm. Must be promotion time for the police--they start really enforcing the rules around promotion time, just to beef up their records.

The walk to Pearl Street is relatively uneventful, considering I'm wearing a sweatshirt and a pair of my more well-worn jeans instead of the usual clingy sweater and skirt combo. "Steve," I call down the street as I walk, hoping he'll be stupid enough to fall for it and come out. Hey, I don't want to go poking around every dark alley on this street--I already injured one bum tonight, I'm not too keen on exerting the effort again.

"Emily?"

Aha. Victory again. "Where are you?"

A soft rustling from the alley ahead of me on the right preceded his eyes, red-rimmed and glazed, peeking around the corner.

I sighed and joined him in the alley. Immediately, the smell of blood and garbage overwhelmed my nose. "Ho-oly crap. What the hell did you do?"

A body was laying on the pavement, its head twisted at an unnatural angle. Blood was still trickling from the nose and mouth, and the eyes--gold and shining even through the glaze of, well, being dead--were staring with blank disinterest at the sliver of sky peeking between the buildings.

"I-I didn't mean to-- He just said that she-- And she got upset, so--"

I lay a hand on his arm, trying to get him to calm down. "Shh, it'll be okay. Were you driving? Before you got drunk?"

"Y-yeah?"

"Where did you park?"

He scratches his head for a moment before giving me half-coherent directions to the parking lot of a nearby bar. "Why do you want my car?"

"Because we're going to make this like it never happened, okay?"

Steve, in his drunken and naturally stupid state, just stared at me with innocent confusion. "How?"

"I'm going to go get your car, and we're going to stuff him into the trunk and dump him somewhere. Preferably the bay."

"But--"

"No buts. I know for a fact that the White Tigers broke up a while ago--if he was in New York, people won't start looking for a while. By then, we'll be in the clear."

He nods. I've almost convinced him.

"Listen to me, Steven. I'm not going to see you go to jail over stupid Lee Yin. He's not worth it--he was an arrogant jackass who deserved whatever you gave him, do you hear me?"

Steve nods, with more conviction this time.

"You understand? Good. Stay put, and run if the cops come."

"Just like last time?"

"Yeah, just like last time."

* * *

Steve is interesting to write. Especially like this.

Please review.


	3. Chapter 3

What was that about spring starting on the 20th? We have roughly 3 inches of snow here. And I'm still sick.

But hey, at least you all get an update.

Enjoy!

**DISCLAIMER:** Not mine, actually. Beyblade belongs to...whoever, and the idea is actually xChewy's.

* * *

The Things I Do For You

Steve's car smells like rancid hamburgers and football gear. I'm not kidding--it's disgusting. It's like he's never heard of a dumpster or anything. He has wrappers and receipts that must be at least a year old, maybe older. It'd be an archeologist's dream in several hundred years, that's for sure.

I put it in gear and pull out of the parking lot. On the bright side, the smell of garbage and sweat will probably mask the smell of blood and alcohol pretty effectively, and if we get stopped, the mountain of refuse will probably discourage anyone from looking in the back seat. We may be mistaken for illegal immigrants, but at least we won't be convicted as murderers.

Oh, god. Did I just think the word _we_? When did I start thinking _we_ about this? It's his fault, I shouldn't even be _involved_! Fighting the urge to pull over and slam my head into the steering wheel a few times to regain a bit of my sense, I parallel park next to the alley and climb out of the car. "Steve?"

He materializes from another shadowy corner down the street and slinks over to me as quietly as his muscled girth will allow--he may be brainless, but at least he's good for heavy lifting. "The police drove by," he offers as an explanation.

"Well, as long as they didn't see anything." I open the door to the back seat. "Go get him."

"We're not putting him in the trunk?"

"No, you idiot--it's too small, for one thing, and if we get stopped, that's the first place they'll look."

"How do you--"

I turn around and glare at him. "Steve, it does not _matter_ how I know these things. It only matters that I do. Now, unless you want me to take your car and leave you to fend for yourself in this, do as I'm asking and _go get Yin._ Clear?"

He nods quickly and lumbers off into the alley, intimidated by me even though I'm a girl and a little less than two-thirds his size.

"You have him? Good, bring him over."

I steer the body onto the back seat and hold my hand out to Steve. "Give me your jacket."

"What? No! This is my favorite! And it's cold!"

"Steve."

His protests fade to a pathetic whimper.

"Need I _remind_ you that you could go to _prison_ if they find your fingerprints on the body?"

Sulking, he hands over the jacket.

I smile sweetly at him. "Thank you. Now go get in the passenger seat."

"But--"

"You're not driving. You're drunk. You'll get us pulled over."

"Oh."

I watch him climb into the passenger seat without further protest before looking up and down the seemingly deserted street. I can't hear anything except normal background noise from other streets--it looks okay. Shaking off the feeling that someone is watching us, I lean over the body in the back seat to arrange the jacket over it. For some reason, the body hasstopped being a _he_ and become an_ it_--how odd.

The eyes catch me off guard when I start to pull the jacket over its face. They're still staring off into space--and they almost look like they can still see more. Maybe more than they saw when _it_--I'm now refusing to call it a _he_--was alive. I have to scoff at the idea. It's dead. It can't see anything.

Still, it's creepy. I pull its eyelids down with my fingertips before covering its face with the jacket.

Satisfied that it's not really visible at the moment, I close the door and casually walk around to the driver's door. "Alright. Let's rock and roll."

* * *

"What did it do, anyway?"

Steve looks over at me, his eyebrows tangled together in confusion. "It?"

Turning onto State Street, I nod towards the body in the back. "_It._"

"Oh."

"So?"

"Umm..."

"I'm helping you hide a body. I think I deserve to know _why_, don't you?"

"He called my ex-girlfriend a slut."

"Was this the one you broke up with, or the one that broke up with you?"

"Elaine."

Again, I'm fighting the urge to smack my head against the dashboard. "I don't keep up with your girlfriends. It's not in my job description."

"The one that broke up with me."

"And...why were you anywhere near her? I thought she had a restraining order against you."

He stares at me, confused beyond his normal, almost non-existant level of coherent thought. "No..."

"Anyway."

A pause as he collects his thoughts again, and then he continues, fiddling with the seatbelt over his chest. "She was working at the bar and Lee called her a slut. She got upset and I-- You know I don't like that, so I got all mad and--"

"Took it outside," I finished helpfully.

"I don't get why he-- I mean, I just punched him in the nose, I've done that before and it didn't kill anyone..."

"You probably just punched him at a bad angle. No big deal."

"Wha-- Yeah, it's a big deal! I _killed_ someone, Emily!"

"So?"

"So? It's _huge_! I'm a _murderer_!"

"You're not."

"Yes I am!"

"Were you _trying_ to kill him?"

"No..."

Peering through the orange glow of the street lights, I find South William Street and hang a right. "Murder is defined as the act of taking the life of another being with defined intent to do so. You weren't intending to kill hi-- _it_, so you're not a murderer."

Apparently further confused by my wording, he just nods and sinks into a moody silence.

I have to roll my eyes--he tries to over-think and rationalize things in ways his brain really can't stretch to accommodate. I put a hand on his shoulder and attempt an encouraging smile (I'm not too great at being anything more than disparaging and sarcastic, usually). "Just forget about it, okay?"

* * *

And I actually remembered to put in the line breaks in here this time. =/

Please review.


	4. Chapter 4

I feel totally rested, refreshed, and absolutely behind on everything. Oh well.

This chapter has a little bit more in the way of swearing than the previous ones, but I don't think it's anything terrible.

Enjoy!

**DISCLAIMER:** Not mine, actually. Beyblade belongs to...whoever, and the idea is actually xChewy's.

* * *

The Things I Do For You

"Emily?"

"Steve, one more question, and I will severely lose my patience."

"Oh."

"What?"

"This isn't how you get to the bay, is it?"

"It's the long way. The very long way."

"Oh."

Several minutes later, I hear him groan and knock his head against the window as I hang a left.

"Hangover?"

"Mmmnh."

"Get an aspirin out of the glovebox."

"I don't have any in here."

I look at him with disbelief. "You don't keep-- You _moron_. I should just let you suffer. It'd serve you right for all this, too."

I look around anyway, trying to find a drugstore or something still open at three twenty-eight in the morning. "Here we go," I mutter to myself, and parallel park against the curb.

"Wait here. I'm going to run in and get something that'll help, okay?"

He nodded, looking like he was in severe pain.

If I wasn't worried about the cops finding us--because, let's face it, I am now an accessory to murder--if we didn't get moving quickly, I would've laughed at his misery. Though I will contend that I'm not _completely_ heartless, I'll admit to being a class A bitch.

The bell jingles as I walk through the door, tipping off the lone employee behind the counter to my presence. "Can I help you with anything," the tired-looking grad student said, blinking languidly at me over the text book open on the counter.

"Just need something for a hangover."

"Aspirin's in the back, I got Oxycodone up here if it's bad," he said, eyeing me like he didn't believe I was really drunk. "You planning on a hangover or something?"

Wary of giving anything away, I hesitate for a minute before deciding that telling the truth can't hurt me any. "No, it's for a friend. Something about his ex."

He winced, genuinely sympathetic. "Brave woman--that's probably not going to be easy. Oxycodone's your best bet," he said, turning to a cabinet behind him and unlocking it. "Dosage info's on the back of the bottle--don't go over, it's a narcotic and you don't want to create an addiction."

I know--I have three bottles of the stuff laying around at home. I just nod anyway.

"Anything else?"

"That'll do it."

He pushed a few buttons on a cash register that must've just barely survived the Civil Rights Movement. "Eight fifty," he said, looking expectantly at me.

"What? That's robbery--I can get a case for that in Brooklyn."

"Then go to Brooklyn. I don't care."

Looking back out the glass door at the car, I make myself remember that I don't have time to argue prices and fish out my wallet. "Fine, fine. I have places to be. Here," I said, handing him a bill.

"Out of twenty? That's...twelve fifty."

"Thanks." I grab the bottle and my change and make a beeline for the door.

"Have a good night," he called after me.

Tugging open the driver's door, I slide in and open the bottle. "Here, this'll help," I tell Steve, who's still leaning against the window where I left him, and hand him one of the tablets.

"Just one?"

"It's strong."

He nods and accepts the pill, downing it completely dry with a grimace. Rolling my eyes, I slip the car back in gear and pull into the nearly empty street again.

* * *

Lights flashed behind them. Red and blue lights.

"Shit."

"Why are you pulling over? Shouldn't you keep going?"

"If I pull over and act like nothing's up, they'll be less likely to suspect anything."

Steven looked confused.

Fighting the urge to smack _him_ instead of my forehead, I sigh heavily and say, "It's reverse psychology. Just try and act like you have a hangover."

"But I do--"

"And not like a guy who just killed someone, who coincidentally has a hangover."

The officer sauntered up to them and motioned for me to roll down the window.

"Yes, officer?" I tried to look worried--not an easy feat when more than half of my family is on the NYPD, and fear of law enforcement has long since been bred out of me. "I-I didn't think I was speeding?"

Apparently, I'm doing a pretty good job of looking scared, because he smiles thinly at me. "Nope, you were under the limit. Your rear license plate lights are out."

"Oh." Oh, god. If that's what sinks us, I'll kill Steve. No, I'll kill him, mutilate the body, and then burn it and hide the remains in the wilds of New Jersey. If there is a greater punishment on this earth, I don't know of it.

"Can I see your license and registration, please?"

I fish out my license and look at Steve. "Steve, where's the registration? Is it in the glovebox?"

"I dunno," he replies hazily, sounding very, very drunk. Good boy. I might not kill him after all.

"Would you look, please? The officer needs it." Turning back to said official, I attempt a beguiling smile and stop just short of theatrically batting my eyelashes. "Sorry, the car is actually Steve's--I'm just driving him and another friend home from the bar."

"Designated driver?"

"No, I just didn't want them trying to drive. And Lee is passed out--I swear, he gets drunk _way_ too often." With a long-suffering sigh to rival that of my ultra-Catholic Aunt Marilyn when listening to the exploits of my alcoholic uncles, I look disapprovingly at the body in the backseat. "I don't understand why. Alcohol is just... It's disgusting."

The officer laughs and waves off my license. "I'll let you off this time, but make sure your friend gets his lights replaced, okay? Good luck with your friend," he says amiably, stepping away from the car. "Have a good night."

"You too, officer," I call after him, still in my Saint Marilyn mindset, and roll up the window.

"That was close."

"Steve, just shut up."

* * *

As much as I hated Emily when I started this thing, she's beginning to grow on me.

Please review.


	5. Chapter 5

LAST CHAPTER.

Now I only have two on the list. Sweeeet. If anyone has an idea for something, I'm taking requests now?

Enjoy!

**DISCLAIMER:** Not mine, actually. Beyblade belongs to...whoever, and the idea is actually xChewy's.

* * *

The Things I Do For You

I pull up to a stoplight and lean back into the coarse upholstery.

Steve looks back at the body in the backseat and turns around quickly, like he's been looking at something he shouldn't.

"What, Steve?"

He fidgets with his seatbelt for a minute, apparently trying to decide whether or not to risk a question I might deem stupid. "How do you know no one will miss him?"

"_It_, Steve. And I know that the White Tigers are broken up because Mariah called me yesterday morning from a hotel in Paris and told me."

"But they'll miss him?"

"Not if he was drinking in a seedy bar in effin' Chinatown."

"Oh."

I sigh and pull through the intersection. "You have to stop questioning this, Steve. It happened, it's over, the end. No changing it. It'll drive you crazy if you keep mulling it over."

"Have you ever...killed anyone, Em?" He sounds quiet, and almost scared.

"How is that relevant?" Looking over, I give him a small smile. "But if it makes you feel any better, he was an ass and he deserved it."

* * *

"Here we are," I say with a sarcastic cheeriness, really wanting to get this over with so I can go take a shower and grab breakfast and a cup of coffee before going back to work. "Get him."

Obediently, Steve gets out of the car and opens the back door. "Hold on, I'm coming," I tell him over the roof of the car.

Together, we pull the body out of the backseat. I toss the jacket back in the car and lead the way to the end of the dock. Steve follows warily, carrying the body.

"Put him down here for a second." I find a cinderblock and an old length of rope and drag both over. "Thank heaven for Girl Scouts," I mutter to myself, tying a complex knot around the the block and the body's ankle.

Steve moves over to pick up the cinderblock and the body.

"Wait," I say, holding up a hand.

He steps back again, waiting for my command.

Slipping my fingers around the body's neck, I untie the string of beads and claws around his neck and hold them up to the faint glow of the streetlight. "Now, Steve."

He doesn't move. "What're you gonna do with those?"

"They're an identifier. I'm going to dispose of them somewhere else."

"Oh."

I stand up and push my hair out of my face. "Toss him," I order again, somewhat off-handedly this time, channeling my inner Italian mobster. Secretly, I'm beginning to enjoy this. I'd forgotten how much fun this was, especially with underlings.

Steve obediently hefts the body on his shoulder and picks up the cinderblock, carrying both to the edge of the dock. Seven steps... Six steps... Five steps...

Behind me, I hear whistling.

"Steve, move!" I look behind the car and see a man in overalls walking toward us. _Just a dock worker,_ I try to tell myself.

Grunting quietly, Steve takes the last few steps toward the edge. He drops the cinderblock in the water. The body follows, sounding to my nervous ears like a thunderous splash.

I move closer to the edge and watch it sink to where I can't see it anymore (which, considering the water quality, isn't saying much), and then lunge into action. We're not safe just yet.

I grab the collar of Steve's t-shirt. "Move," I hiss, pulling him along back to the car.

He stumbles before sinking to his knees behind the car with me.

"Stay quiet," I warn him softly, listening to the whistling get closer.

He nods quickly, wide-eyed.

The whistling stops just as the man steps close to the car. Against every doctrine I hold, I close my eyes so tight they ache and begin to pray fervently.

Through my prayers, I hear the man mutter, "Stupid kids. Damn thing'll be towed by noon, serves them right." The whistling continues, and he walks away.

Several long, semi-silent seconds pass, broken only by the sounds of city life speeding up again and our own harsh breathing.

Steve laughs, nervous and high-pitched and startled. "We did it," he says, awed.

"Yeah," I say, my back against the rear tire and my eyes on the sun peeking over the line between the bay and the sky.

More silence stretches between us. There's something unreal about the sunrise, in light of our night escapades.

And, all too soon, reality comes crashing back like Steve in a glass shop. I have reports to file, and meetings to go to, and a million other things I can't do in my fifteen-hour day and am expected to complete anyway. Standing up briskly, I pull my hapless companion to his feet and pull open the car door.

"C'mon, Steve. I need to get to work."

* * *

"Hey, did you guys see this?"

Michael hands me the paper and taps the sports page. "Scary stuff," he says, sitting back in his chair.

I look around at the rest of my former team around the restaurant table and read the headline of the short article out loud. "Chinese beyblading finalist disappears without a trace."

"Which 'beyblade finalist'?" Max takes a bite of his apple and stares at me with interest.

"Lee Yin," I say shortly, not even needing to read the article.

Steve looks up to me from his swiftly disappearing omelet, remembering our adventure from several weeks previous.

I stare at him hard and shake my head as imperceptibly as possible, hoping he gets the message.

We're not going to speak of this to anyone.

He gives me a tiny nod and goes back to eating, like nothing happened.

I sigh and answer Max's request for me to read the article by handing him the paper.

The things I do for these boys.

* * *

And another one bites the dust. xD

Please review.


End file.
